Back home
by Vivien99
Summary: It has been almost an decade since he had been there the last time. But an unfortunate event forces Aramis and his brothers to take shelter in his home town.
1. An unfortunate event

**So we had Porthos returning to the Court of Miracles and Athos returning to his estate… This is how I imagined Aramis' return to his father.**

"I've found nothing that could've told us who sent them. Maybe just a group of robbers?" D'Artagnan guessed as he walked over to his brothers, after he was ready with searching the corpses of the men that had attacked them.

The Musketeers had been on a mission for the king, delivering a letter, waiting for the answer and return with it. The had already delivered the letter and had waited three days in a nearby village until the answer was ready. It wasn't even a full days ride before they were attacked.

"They didn't seem practiced in this. I think they're normal man and were paid for this. Maybe they wanted the letter." Porthos crouched down beside Aramis, who was working on Athos' bleeding thigh. The medic didn't look up from the needle in his hand as it struck through flesh, as he answered. "One of them was a smith, another a farmer. They were hired."

He earned a confused gaze from his brothers, from all but Athos who only groaned in pain as the needle pushed through his skin. "They're from a nearby village. Not far from my home town." The medic than explained, made the last stitch and wrapped the long gash in bandages. "You can't ride like this any longer than necessary." Aramis didn't give the still curious and surprised looks on his brother's faces any attention as he stored his things away and made his way over to the death to close their eyes and whisper a last prayer for their lost souls.

"Any one else hurt?" Aramis then asked and looked at his friends with concern, but they shook their head. "Only a few bruises and cuts that can wait. And you?" "Nothing serious either. So as no one else needs any treatment now we should leave as soon as possible. Who knows how many are after us."

"How long do we have to ride to reach the village they came from?" Porthos then asked, trying to avoid all the questions that ran through his mind. "Maybe three hours. But Athos won't make it that far."

"I think I can decide this, can't I?" Athos muttered as he tried to stand up just to land on his butt again a second later. "No." The other three answered in union. "So is there something else we can sleep? You seem to know the area, Aramis." The Gascon helped Athos to his feet, wrapping one arm around the swordsman's shoulder.

There was an unnatural silence as Aramis had his back turned to them and put the medical kit back into the bag on his horse. He then sighed and mounted up. "Follow me."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Athos tried desperately to not show his relief as Aramis told them that it won't be long, only a few minutes. The swordsman would have never admitted it, but the burning pain in his sigh made him feel sick and wish for nothing other than a warm bed and some good sleep. He had been glad to hear that they headed towards a village and wouldn't have to sleep outside in the cold this night.

"Where exactly are we heading?" D'Artagnan asked curiously and looked at Aramis, who had been untypical silent. "d'Herblay." The name didn't say the young man anything, but as Porthos and Athos both exchanged another confused look, he frowned. "What's special about it?"

Porthos kicked his horse slightly to ride beside the Gascon. Whispering, he explained:" His birthname is d'Herblay. It has to be his home town." It's not that Aramis didn't notice the voices behind him and he knew exactly what they were talking about, but he decided to not think about it. He did what was necessary to get Athos to somewhere safe where he could recover long enough until he could ride again. "I've never heard someone call him by his full name." He heard d'Artagnan admit and couldn't hold back a small smile at the young man's curiosity and innocence he still carried with him even though he was a soldier.

"Is actual name was René d'Herblay. He changed it to Aramis as he came to Paris. There's not much more we know, he never spoke about it."

"So it's just 'Aramis' nothing more? I can't believe I never asked how his full name was."

"Just Aramis." Porthos confirmed before his attention turned back to their marksman, who's gaze was locked on a small village that came to view where horizon met earth.

"We're there soon, Athos."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

"It looks good here." D'Artagnan turned his head into every direction as they rode through the only street the village had, impressed by how good the houses looked. Orange trees separated the buildings and spent some shadow on the small street.

It's only a five minutes ride through the village until Aramis dismounts in front of a small Inn. The end of the town is already to be seen, as only a few more houses and a church come after the Inn. Some farms are seen in the distance, one building bigger than the other, colourful trees making them seem as small palaces.

The marksman leaves them alone to ask for a few spare rooms just to come out a bit later. "There's no room left. Not even one."

"And now? Where are we supposed to go?" Porthos looked back at Athos, who barely held himself upright by now. Red strained the white dressing, as he probably had ripped his stitches through the ride. The wound needed to be cleaned properly and he needed rest, they couldn't sleep outside for days.

"Merde." Aramis hissed as he mounted up again, feeling the burning of the cut on his shoulder he had earned during their fight. "There's one more place I can think of."

"And that's where?" Porthos now rode beside his brother, while d'Artagnan had an eye onto the swordsman. "The farm of my father." Inwardly he spoke a fast prayer and reminded himself that he did this to help a friend.

"So we're going to get to know your parents? How exciting." Porthos grinned and clapped him onto the shoulder, causing the marksman to hiss in pain. "Just a small cut." Aramis answered fast as he knew too well that Porthos wouldn't approve that he hadn't told them of the cut. But it wasn't too deep and could wait until they had time to treat it. Athos was far worse than he.

"So, what are their names, huh? Your parents, I mean."

Aramis sighed, clearly annoyed at the topic. "My father's name is Pierre."

"And your mother?" Porthos asked, now less excited as he feared the answer. "She won't be there. She never lived with him but at the border to spain. She died as I was still a boy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Aramis offered him a gentle smile. The memories still hurt but he had learned to live with it. It may be a sad story but one many other people shared with him.

They rode up a path, where on each side orange trees hovered, until the tress ended, and a big building came into view. It was not close to Athos' estate, but it was bigger than d'Atagnan's farmhouse. "What kind of farm are you?"

"My father grows grapes and makes his own wine." Aramis explained and dismounted as a young boy ran towards them.

"May I help you?" He asked eagerly and pointed towards the horses. Aramis nod and gave him the reigns before the others followed his example. D'Artagnan and Porthos helped Athos dismount and wrapped each an arm around him to help him towards the door. Aramis always had a concerned eye on the thigh, which lost blood again until they reached their destination.

He took in a deep breath and knocked three times. "When have you been here the last time?" D'Artagnan watched him shrug. "As I way 16." "That's almost a decade ago!"

There was no time to say anything else as the door was ripped open.

A man in his fifties, with a thick brown beard and a few grey strains, took in the look in front of him until his eyes stopped on Aramis.

"René?" He asked, but beside the surprise there wasn't the joy the others had expected. "What is this supposed to mean?" He asked and pointed at the others. "Who are these men?"

"A good day to you, too. These- "Aramis pointed at his brothers, "are King's Musketeers, just as I am. We were ambushed and as you can see my friend is injured. You were the closest place to go and he needs some medical attention. If we could stay until he's able to ride, the King would be in your debt."

The older man huffed but took a step to the side, so they could enter. "Can't believe you really dared to come back here, after all you've done." The others heard the man mutter to Aramis, as they dragged Athos into the next room.

Aramis bit his lip to not say something wrong – they needed his father's help, if he liked it or not. "It's a necessity I also wish we could have avoided."

Pierre watched him enter the room where Athos already lay on a table, his trousers being ripped apart by Porthos. The farmer didn't know much about wounds, but even he could tell that such a deep gash couldn't be good. "We need needle, thread, hot water and towels." Aramis told no one specific in the room as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Even though it was his son, Pierre didn't want to leave him and these strangers alone in his house, so he called out for Justine – his daughter. Aramis froze in his movements for a second as he heard the name before he carried on with his task to prepare Athos.

"Yes, father?" An angelic like voice called, followed by fast footsteps and the rustling of skirts until a woman in d'Artagnan's age stood in the doorway. Her hair was put in a ponytail, her hands too dirty for the ones of a lady. She looked surprised by all the people in the house, but caught herself fast, sending them a small smile. Aramis turned around to face her as he heard her soft voice. Seeing her half-brothers face, the woman let out a gasp and clasped her hands in front of her mouth. "René!" She rushed forward just to stop as she noticed all the blood on his hands.

"Justine." He smiled softly and tried to block her view from the ugly wound. "Why – what – "She turned around to her father in search for answers. "I will explain it later to you, but my friend here is wounded and we need your help. Could you get some towels, water and a needle?" Justine still seemed overwhelmed by the situation, but she obeyed and ran out of the room to follow her half-brother's plea.


	2. I forgot

"No walking until I allow it." Aramis scolded as he wrapped a new bandage around the freshly sewed wound. Athos grumbled something the marksman couldn't understand and he decided not to care. There was no way his brother could walk with a leg like this and riding was no more an option. He sighed, as he knew that it would take days until Athos would be able to leave the farm.

Aramis wiped away the blood of his friend from his hands and the sweat from his brow before he and Porthos half dragged half carried Athos onto an armchair by the fire. A stool supported the injured leg.

"I think there's someone eager to talk to you." Porthos muttered and pointed at the doorway with his head. Aramis followed the motion to find Justine smiling at him. He heard d'Artagnan arguing with Athos, that he wasn't allowed to stand up and Porthos walking around the room, searching for blankets. As he was sure that the wounded man was in good hands, he walked over to his half-sister just to be pulled into a long embrace as he reached her.

"It had been to long, René." She murmured before she stretched her arms, her hands still on his shoulders, to take in the view in front of her. "You're all grown up." There was some sadness in her eyes, but her voice only showed proudness of what had become of here brother. "You are no longer a child either." He took in her flawless face, the long brown hair which ended in a strict ponytail. She had grown since he had last seen her and was now above average height, fitting to the strong arms that were hiding beneath the silk of her dress.

"Now tell me, René, what happened exactly to you and your friends? After all these years… I thought you would never come back and now, you're standing here, right in front of me."

Aramis laid an arm around her shoulder and guided her out of the room and into the kitchen so they would be unheard by the others. He noticed that barely nothing had changed in the years he had been away and smiled gently at the memories. All these hours Justine and he had played in the kitchen just be kicked out by Madame Bonaire.

"We were on a mission close to here as we were ambushed. Athos was cut in the thigh as you can see. This was the closest village and we couldn't afford to ride any longer."

"So you only came because it was necessary?" There was a hint of pain in her voice as she avoided his gaze and looked out of the window. She knew that René ad to have a reason to come back, but she hoped that the reason would be to visit his family. "Justine."

Aramis sighed and followed her gaze onto the fields of wine. "You know I never wanted to leave you, mon coeur de soeur ( _my dearest sister)._ But after all that had happened, I couldn't stay."

"You stopped writing letters." She hissed unexpectedly. "Two letters was all I've got from you! You went away and never let me know how you were or what you were doing! All I knew was that you became a musketeer, and then… then you stopped writing! Do you know how scared I was? I never knew if you were alive or dead… the thought that you could have died without any of us noticing… it… do you know how hard this was for me?" Tears filled Justine's eyes, but she was just as stubborn as her half-brother and didn't allow them to fall down. Instead she pushed against his chest, causing him to stumble into the drawer behind him.

"The one thing is to leave father behind. I understood, I really did! But why me?" She shook her head in frustration and stormed out of the room to not let René see her cry.

The marksman sighed as the words sunk in. He knew it wasn't right, he knew it all the time. But after he wrote the two letters – the first one as he became a soldier, and the second one as he became a musketeer – Savoy happened and for a long while he wasn't in any circumstances able to write these letters. And then… he had found his brothers, his true home and he decided to let go.

She was right, he had pushed not only his father but her too away. But every time he thought about her, wrote her, he couldn't stop thinking about everything else that had to do with his family too. And these were thoughts he most likely wanted to forget – so he forget. He knew that it was unfair towards Justine but this was the one and only time he had been egoistic, and all these years he had believed that it had been the right decision. He started to question that now.

As he had caught his bearings again, Aramis walked back into the room where his brothers were already waiting for him. He didn't miss the look in their eyes, as there was no way that they hadn't heard Justine's shouting. Fortunately they seemed to sense that he was in no mood to talk about it and let him be.

D'Artagnan, who hated the tensed mood in the room, tried to break it somehow. "So when will Athos be able to ride again?"

"A few days, hopefully." Aramis turned to his medical tools, that still laid on the table bloodied and washed them before he packed them away.

"Your father said that the guest room will be prepared for us and that we can stay there at long as necessary." Porthos told him and bit back the comment, that the man seemed quite courteous. He hadn't forgotten the words Pierre had spoken to his son as they had entered and knew that there was more to this story than Aramis had told him. But… Aramis had never told him much, so there had to be more anyway.

"The wine is really good." D'Artagnan said with a forced smile, desperate to not let the conversation die, as Aramis didn't answer. Normally it was the marksman who lifted the mood, it was weird the other way around. Aramis only nodded as he remembered the sweet taste as he had first tasted it Marie`s lips. He couldn't hide the smile that lingered on his face at the memory.

"I will see if our room is ready so we can move Athos." Aramis then said abrupt and walked out of the room and up the stairs, that still creaked beneath his weight.

Upstairs, he walked right were the guest room always had been. On the way he couldn't stop himself to stop in front of his old room. A while too long his hand lingered over the doorknob, before he turned it and opened the door. His bed was gone, therefor a big bookshelf and a armchair stood in it's place. The table was still there, a bible laid on it – a new one, not the one his mother had given him, cause this one was well kept in Paris. His fingers touched the leather and traced the golden word on it, before they found the drawer under the table and opened it as well. Aramis closed his eyes for a moment before he shut the drawer with a loud thud again and left the room.

He carefully closed the door behind him again, somehow not wanting that someone knew that he had been in his old room, before he strode towards the guest room, to find the two beds already made and candles lit.


	3. Leave me alone

"You're getting heavier with the years." Porthos huffed as he and Aramis gently lead the swordsman to one of the two tall beds that were made ready for them in the guestroom.

"Or maybe you're only getting weaker." Athos answered and sighed in relief as his throbbing leg finally made contact with the soft material.

"Doubt that." The tall man laughed and sat down on a nearby chair. D'Artagnan followed them into the room with a tray full of food and wine. "Justine prepared this for us." He explained and set the tray down on the table before he took a piece of bread to chew on it. "It's still warm."

Aramis handed Athos some of the bread and broth but none of the wine because of the blood loss. "Only water for you, mon ami." Athos rolled his eyes, but he knew that Aramis' was right.

"Now, let me see to the rest of you." The medic raised an eyebrow of the other two, asking silently who wanted to be the first to be examined. Porthos, who knew how much Aramis' liked to fuss over them, stripped of his shirt first to show the marksman that there were truly nothing more than a few bruises. D'Artagnan showed the medic a gash on his arm, it was not deep and didn't require stitching, but he knew that Aramis would have gotten furious if he had hidden it from him.

The medic cleaned the wound nevertheless and put on a salve against infection.

"And what about you, huh?" Porthos asked from his place by the fire, a bowl full of broth in his hand.

"I'm fine." The marksman told them and already started to put his medical kit back into his saddlebag.

"Show it." Porthos demanded and got supporting nods from his brothers. Aramis sighed, but striped of his shirt nevertheless, exposing the gash on his shoulder blade to their youngest, who stood right behind him.

"Why haven't you said anything?! That needs some stitches." The Gascon was nearly touching the wound as Aramis turned around to him. "Don't touch it with your dirty hands. I would have tended to it on my own, no need to worry."

"And how exactly did you plan to stitch your back yourself? Besides, this should have been at least cleaned right after the attack! You're a fool, Aramis." Porthos was now standing again and examined the injurie that still bled sluggishly.

"It's not THAT bad." Aramis was about to put his shirt back on as a rough voice stopped him. "You said that too after you had broken your arm. Or that time you was so bad concussed you couldn't stand up without vomiting for days." Pierre put down a bucket with steaming water. His face was an unreadable mask as he pushed Aramis down on a chair and took a wet towel. "I've seen the blood on your shirt earlier. Knew you hadn't changed being a bloody fool." He muttered and started to clean the gash, without being asked to.

It burnt, but Aramis didn't show the pain once – even though the hands of his father were far from the gentleness from Constance. He also tried to supress the surprise at his father's behaviour, but from the look in Porthos' eyes he could tell that he wasn't successful at this.

His brothers watched the scene with interest as they slowly ate from the broth and drank wine – except Athos, who nipped on some water.

Aramis tensed up as the needle pushed through his skin, but didn't dare to let out a hiss of pain – and also held back the comment that his father probably wasn't doing it very neatly. On the other side he had not much of a choice left, as neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan were much better at stitching. Justine, she was quite good at it, but after their fight earlier he wouldn't have dared to ask her. So Pierre kept going with stitching up his son without speaking a single word. As he was ready he left as suddenly as he had come.

The marksman couldn't hold back a sigh as the door closed. "So what's up with you and your family huh? There's this strange tension between all of you." Porthos raised an eyebrow at his friend, who put his shirt back on and poured some wine into a glass.

"It's … a long story." He sighed before he gulped down half of the glasses content and sat down on the second bed.

"We have plenty of time." D'Artagnan pointed at Athos, who was starting to doze off.

Aramis bit the inside of his cheek, he really didn't want to talk about this.

"My father and I fought – I went to Paris. That's all." The Gascon snorted. "It had to be quite a bad fight when you left home because of it."

"I heard what he said to you as we came. _Can't believe you really dared to come back here, after all you've done_. What exactly have you done?"

Aramis drank more from the wine an shook his head. "This, mon ami, is really nothing of your concern. You all should learn to respect another's private life. I'm not poking in your background stories either."

"But you can. Ask and I well tell you everything you want to know." D'Artagnan shrugged, he had nothing he couldn't tell his brothers and he started to get frustrated with Aramis. What did he hide from them? What could have been so serious that he couldn't even tell his brothers about it?

The marksman gulped down his second glass of wine, before he stood up suddenly. "Mind your own business, d'Artagnan, will you?" Aramis hissed as he walked out of the room as anger overcame him to supress the shame, guilt and pain that he truly felt.

Porthos was already in the doorway, ready to run after their brother, as a calm voice stopped him. "Don't. Leave him alone, he will tell us when he's ready." It was Athos, who apparently hadn't been as asleep as they had thought. He may knew best about background stories, you didn't want to talk about but do anything to forget.

In the meanwhile, Aramis had left the house and walked through the vineyards. He tried to get his thoughts clear, but all that came to his mind, were all the fights – with his brothers and Justine – the loneliness he had felt as he had left, and the memories of _why_ he had left.

He felt the burning in his eyes and wiped away the tears that started to escape.

He knew he acted childish and that frustrated him even more. He just ran away from his brothers. He shouldn't have done it, but he got so angry at them. Why did they even have to ask?  
No, this was unfair towards them. They only were worried, he knew that. He would have asked the same questions if roles were switched. He was not angry at them and not at Justine, he was angry that they had to return to his his childhood home. That all these long forgotten memories had to come up again and that he had to explain himself. Not only had he to tell the story to his brothers some time, no he had to make peace with Justine and talk to his father.

He laughed bitterly. Pierre and he rarely talked, as every conversation they had ended with shouting, fists and broken furniture.


	4. From guilt, pain and sorrow

As Aramis came back into the room Athos was awake again, still no one dared to make a noise as the three musketeers eyed their brother with worry.

"Want to talk about it?" D'Artagnan offered, as Aramis took a bottle of wine, opened it and gulped down half of it's content. "No." He answered, voice icy.

"I'm sorry that you were forced to come here because of me." Athos pointed at his thigh, which was wrapped in white dressings – fortunately they weren't stained with blood like the last ones. The wound was healing well now that he got some rest and Aramis hoped that they could leave in a few days. 

"It's not your fault, mon ami." Aramis took another sip of the sweet liquid before he let himself fall into a chair and groaned in frustration. "I think we can leave in three days, maybe earlier. We will ride only a couple of hours until we reach the next village, there you can heal properly." Athos wanted to argue that he was able to ride the whole way back to Paris but deep down he knew that he wasn't fit enough.

"You know, you could ride back to Paris, send message that we're late." Porthos now offered but Aramis shook his head. "No, I won't leave him like this." He pointed at Athos' wound with his head and looked up to the ceiling. "You really should stop worrying about me." 

"We will when you can be with your family in the same room for more than five minutes without shouting." D'Artagnan huffed.

Aramis groaned again, annoyed that all the attention is on him. "It's not THAT bad."

"Justine ran away crying minutes ago." Athos answered blankly and pointed at the window behind him. The others followed his finger but Justine was already out of their sight. Aramis sighed, his fingers ran through his messy hair. "Why do I always have the feeling that everyone just assumes that all is my fault?"

"We do not." Porthos assured and tried to catch the eyes of his brother, but Aramis' look was already unfocused from the alcohol in his system. He took another sip, wiping his lips dry with his hand.

"We just don't know what's going on. The only thing we DO know is that you left your family years ago and never came back or wrote a letter. I assume you had your reasons, but what could have been so grievous that you did it? I mean we saw how close you and Justine are, and Aramis – you're no man who breaks the heart of a woman light-hearted. So just, please, tell us what happened. Maybe we can help." D'Artagnan frowned as Aramis gulped down more of the wine that his father had made in the cellar.  
"Maybe I don't want to talk?"

"Athos is the one who's brooding alone and silent, not you." Porthos raised an brow at his brothers and felt a small glimpse of triumph as he heard the marksman sigh.

"It had not been one particular thing… It was just everything. I – I came here as I was around eight years old. I became to old to live with my mother – started to understand what she did. She wanted better for me and send me to Pierre. That's what I always thought. Actually she was quite sick and died only a few months later, but Pierre never told me. I found out the morning before I left."

"You were angry that he hadn't told you?" Porthos asked with sorrow in his eyes. He could understand well how it was to lose a mother. Aramis nod, taking another gulp.

"But it wasn't only this. I've never have been happy here. My mother has always been so lovingly to me, so caring – Pierre was different. Quite strict and you know I never was good with rules. We fought a lot – I wasn't allowed to speak Spanish, wasn't allowed to talk about my mother. He put me in priest school, hoping that I would get better but then there was Isabelle. She got pregnant, we wanted to marry but then she lost the child and left. Her father had always been angry with me for impregnating her and as she lost the child he said that it was my fault. Justine had been engaged with Isabelle's brother Josef but after the miscarriage Josef didn't want to have anything to do with the d'Herblays and left Justine. So I've not only ruined the reputation of my father but the one of my sister too, I think that's the reason why she's still not married. She really had loved Josef." 

"So you were… ashamed? Felt guilty?" D'Artagnan asked carefully as he tried to make out all the reasons why Aramis had left. "Yes, but I would have stayed. But Pierre wasn't happy with me after this ordeal. He got even stricter than before and forced me to find absolution." Aramis emptied the bottle as he stared at his hands. "Praying?" Porthos asked, not really understanding what had been so bad with it.

The marksman shook is head, chewed on his lip as he thought if and how he could explain this to them. But it wasn't necessary, as Athos seemed to understand. "There are still some religious people who think that pain leads to absolution. They often flog themselves, sometimes put salt in the wounds afterwards."  
Porthos eyes widened in shock and tried to recall how the back of his brother looked. But then, he couldn't really remember having seen it ever in all this years.

"It was never enough for him. He told me I would burn I hell for my sins, that I was a shame for his family. That I should have stayed with my mother and became a whore just like her – I had the right face for it, he told me. I punched him, broke his nose. After that – I found the letter of my mother's death and it was just too much. I took a horse and left, sold it in Paris to afford some food. I wrote Justine twice, telling her about my work as a soldier and then as I became a musketeer. But I just didn't feel like I longer belonged to the d'Herblays – actually never have. I had the musketeers as my new family and forced myself to forget them. I didn't want to remember any of this and I certainly didn't want to have feel guilty for leaving them."


End file.
